Of a sudden, Franks ceased to talk; his countenance
changed, overcast with melancholy; and when, after some moments'
silence, Bertha again spoke of the landscape, he gave only a dull
assent to her words.
"And it all comes too late," fell from him, presently. "Too late."
"Your success?"
"What's the good of it to me?" He smote his leg with the rattan he
was swinging. "A couple of years ago, money would have meant
everything. Now--what do I care about it!"
Bertha's surprise obliged her to keep an unnaturally solemn visage.
"Don't you think it'll grow upon you," she said, "if you give it
time?"
"Grow upon me? Why, I'm only afraid it may. That's just the danger.
To pursue success--vulgar success--when all the better part has
gone out of life--"
He ended on a sigh and again whacked his leg with the stick.
"But" urged his companion, as though gravely, "isn't it easy _not_
to pursue success? I mean if it really makes you uncomfortable.
There are so many kinds of work in art which would protect you
against the perils of riches."
Franks was watching her as she spoke.
"Miss Cross" he said, "I suspect you are satirical. I remember you
used to have a turn that way. Well, well, never mind; I don't expect
you to understand me."
They had passed out of Ashtead Park and were now ascending by the
lane which leads up to Epsom Common.
"I suppose we are both going the same way," said Franks, who had
recovered all his cheerfulness.
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